Inevitable
by Zoozex
Summary: A series of attempts at analysing Violet and Isobel's relationship and the way it progresses in... interesting directions. Chapter 1. In which Violet surprises herself (and Isobel). Set a few days after Matthew returned home from the Somme.


Violet looked absently out the car's window. It was getting dark, and it surprised her to still see people on the country road. _Mostly women_, she thought, and felt a twinge of pain at the thought of the heartbreaking scene she had witnessed earlier in the day - a dying William marrying Daisy on his death bed. _So useless, so… senseless_, she said to herself, clutching at the silver handle of her cane. A bump in the road broke her train of thought, and she threw a disapproving glance in the direction of the chauffeur. The car slowed down as they entered the village and turned left in the direction of the Dower House. A small silhouette of a woman walking towards Crawley House caught Violet's eye. She turned her head to make out who it was and saw her enter the house. _That did look like Isobel… but she is in France. Ah, of course, Matthew_… and the twinge of pain reappeared, this time a bit stronger. She fiddled for a few seconds with the handle of her cane, and then tapped it on the glass separator. The chauffeur slowed down the car, parked it on the side of the road and turned around.

'Yes, m'lady?'

'Branson, would you please turn around and take me to Crawley House? I think I saw Mrs. Crawley and I would like to pay her a visit.'

'Certainly, m'lady', said the young man, turning around and starting the engine.

They approached the house slowly and Violet waited for Branson to open the door and pull out the footstep.

'I won't be long', she said, getting out of the car with his help.

She crossed the small garden in front of the house and knocked at the door. A rather dishevelled Molesley opened the door, a look of surprise in his eyes.

'Lady Grantham! I…'

'Good evening, Molesley. I apologise for such a late unannounced visit, I saw cousin Isobel on my way to the Dower House. May I come in?' she asked, entering. 'I would like to talk to her for a few minutes.'

'Of course, milady, forgive me', he said, moving aside. 'I'll let Mrs. Crawley know that you are here.'

'Thank you, Molesley', said Violet, opening the first two buttons of her overcoat.

Molesley entered the reading room and Violet heard Isobel's muffled voice, and in a few moments he came out. She entered the semi-obscure room and heard Molesley close the door. Isobel was sitting in a corner of the sofa, her face lighted only by the last gleams of sunset.

'Cousin Violet… this is a nice surprise', said Isobel, her tired voice belying her statement, and she indicated the sofa with a motion of her hand.

Violet walked past her and sat on the sofa, unbuttoning her overcoat.

'I have seen you on the road earlier and thought I'd come by the house', said Violet, ignoring Isobel's stab at irony and studying her face instead. There was a strange automaton quality to Isobel's movements - as if she wasn't in complete control of what she was saying or doing, as well as some kind of lethargy that seeped through, pervading her speech, her movements, even her posture, as if she was fighting to stand upright.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' asked Isobel, turning towards Violet.

'No, thank you, it is a bit late in the evening for that. But let's dispense with the pleasantries', she said with a decided tone. 'How is Matthew? I have only heard bits and pieces from Mary today. I was planning to go tomorrow to the house and find out more. Any news as to his recovery?'

'I didn't get a chance to speak with Dr. Clarkson, I arrived quite late in the day. I did see Matthew though…' Isobel's voice trailed. 'He seemed… all right, for all intents and purposes. Bruises and cuts. He told me about his legs - he can't move them. Or… feel them.'

Violet watched Isobel as she drew a difficult breath. Isobel opened her mouth, as if to say something, then stopped. She paused for a few seconds, then continued.

'It is very likely that he'll be unable to walk again', she said in an impassive, equal voice, looking straight ahead, her face devoid of all emotion.

'You cannot know that, surely there must be…'

'Have you decided to support the war effort and undergone some kind of nurse training while I was away, by any chance?' hissed Isobel, turning her head suddenly and giving Violet a sharp look. 'Because if you haven't, I'd rather defer to the professionals' opinion in this matter. _Especially_ since it concerns my son.'

'I was... merely trying to analyse the options', said Violet, overarticulating the words, a bit unsettled by Isobel's reaction. Still, she preferred this Isobel, acidic and confrontational, to the other one that she had witnessed so far – the one who was reacting as if she was walking under water, lethargic, overcome by a strange blend of apathy and resignation. This Isobel was familiar – sharp-tongued, bright-eyed, always with her guard up, always with a retort on hand, a worthy 'sparring partner', although Violet had always prided herself on giving as good as she got. _The art of conversation, hmph - conversation is not an art, it's an armed conflict_, she always used to say.

Isobel turned her head and exhaled slowly. As she stood there, stoic, looking blankly in front of her, both her hands in her lap, she resembled one of those pharaonic statues Flinders Petrie kept uncovering in Egypt - the epitome of calm and composure. Violet felt a sudden surge of sympathy. She inched a bit further on the sofa.

'Isobel, I will not pretend to know what you're going through right now, I have been spared, thank heavens, the pain of seeing any of my children in the state Matthew is in. But I want you to know that-'

'You have no idea what I have witnessed. None.' said Isobel, interrupting her. 'When I left for France I was convinced that I had seen so many horrible things in my life while being a nurse, that nothing could shock me anymore. But nothing, _nothing_ prepared me for what I faced there...'

Isobel's shoulders dropped, and Violet was surprised at herself, at having to fight an impulse to touch her arm, in an attempt to comfort her.

'I have seen boys like Matthew, younger than Matthew, their limbs torn off, their faces blown apart... Boys who haven't even had the chance to _think_ about a family, to kiss a girl, to dream about a future, who cried in their pillows at night, desperately trying to muffle the sounds of their weeping. Boys forced to grow up while gathering the body parts of their comrades-their friends and cousins and brothers, from the muddy trenches of the Somme, so that their parents wouldn't have to bury an empty coffin. Boys in agony, who couldn't breathe after inhaling poisonous gas, boys who knew they were cannon fodder and yet never complained about it, not once. I was not prepared for that... No one was prepared for that', she said, almost whispering, and Violet noticed how her hands had started trembling in her lap. She raised a hand, almost touching her, only to stop when Isobel continued, as if animated by a perverse desire to relive all the things she had witnessed.

'There was this young Scottish boy who had the same blond hair as Matthew, and eyes just like his... he reminded me terribly of him. He had been stabbed by a bayonet and had blood poisoning, septicaemia, as they call it. The second day after they brought him in, he ran a high fever and started having night terrors. Horrible screams in the middle of the night - he was so loud... he disturbed the other patients. I was the only one who could calm him down. The bed next to him was empty - the soldier who had slept in it had died the day before - so I took a book with me and stood by his side, got up in the middle of the night to hold him, told him stories, I even sang him lullabies. You cannot _imagine _the way he looked at me... Pain, horror, gratitude, fear - all those were in his eyes when he looked into mine. I took care of him and cleaned his horrible, festering wound every evening, gave him a bath, wiped his forehead at night when he was drenched in sweat, as if he were my own. And all this time, I would look at him, in those blue, innocent eyes, and pray that my Matthew was safe. I was hoping against hope, you see, it was like I had signed a contract - with God, the Devil, the Universe, what have you... I _had to_ take care of him, and in secret I was nursing this selfish, irrational hope that the fact that I had devoted all my attention and care to him would hang in the balance of things somewhere, would detour a bullet aimed at my Matthew's chest, would prevent him from taking a wrong step when a shell landed...'

Isobel stopped for a brief instant and swallowed. She brought up an unsure hand and rubbed her forehead, then let it drop in her lap. Violet couldn't suppress a knot from forming in her throat. It was so... unnatural somehow, seeing the ever combative, down-to-earth, unrelenting Isobel, who would never yield in an argument, gradually fall apart like that. The more she advanced with her story, the rawer and more painful it seemed to get.

'One day, Patrick - that was the boy's name, seemed to be better. He was quieter, at any rate. In retrospect, I don't know what was more frightening - the screaming or the silence. So I left that morning to have a change of clothes and send some letters, planning to return later, just in case he needed me. He died that same day, in the afternoon... And the next morning I received Robert's telegram and returned to... to... _this_!'

And she broke down. Whimpers turned into sobs and sobs into cries and cries into wails. She doubled over, covering her face with her hands, unable to control her sobbing. Violet stretched out her hand and touched her arm with two fingers, with no reaction from Isobel. She moved a bit closer and awkwardly touched her shoulder. She had never been one of those mothers who hugged her children incessantly, had always believed that the more scholarly pursuits she spurred her children on - reading, sparkling conversation, philosophical debates, were more important than senseless displays of affection - _silly giggling and frolicking about, if you ask me._ She had managed to instil a measure of that in Rosamund, true; less in Robert, who had always had a more... romantic temperament.

But Isobel... Isobel was different. She wasn't afraid to show emotion, compassion, she was always ready to comfort, nurture, protect. She couldn't help but remembering her fierce determination, how adamant she was when she persuaded Dr. Clarkson to treat Drake, the farmer, or the palpable relief she showed when the poor man had started to breathe. And then it struck her: _she needs to be nurtured just as much as she needs to nurture, she needs to be shown compassion just as much as she needs to give it to others... _And Violet decided to give it to her, to step out of her personal bubble, that space that was hers and hers alone, that kept everyone and everything at arm's length. She touched Isobel's hair, arranging an imaginary strand of light chestnut hair behind her ear, and started rubbing circles on her back, shushing her, trying to make her... _feel better? Forget?_

She put one hand on Isobel's left arm and the other on her right, causing her to rise up in her clumsy embrace, letting her cry and let out all her worry and pain, whispering reassuring words in her hair, cradling her head against her shoulder.

'Isobel, he is _alive... Matthew is alive_, that is all that matters now... Shush now, dear, you're home, he is here, they're taking care of him... Everything will be all right...'

At her words, she felt Isobel tense up, her hand clutching her arm, clinging desperately to her own, her sobbing getting louder, and she wrapped her arms tighter around her, determined to see Isobel through this, to provide a measure of comfort, as insignificant as it was. Theirs was not a friendship in the proper sense of the word. Isobel and Matthew had been propelled into her life by a tragic chain of events, but as time went by, she had come to appreciate, even respect both of them - Matthew for his honour, principles and sense of what was right - _that it was also convenient for us is of no consequence right now - _and Isobel... well. As irritating as she could be sometimes, Violet felt, instinctively, that Isobel's determination to go against her and to act on her decisions was anchored in a very well-defined set of values. _Either that or it is truly a matter of a Jeanne d'Arc complex, and if so, then there's nothing we can do, _she mused to herself, sarcastically.She never failed to use the rather blurred edges of any situation to her advantage, while Isobel - and she unwillingly admitted to herself that she almost admired that - always chose the most difficult, but clearer solution to all problems. But in a way this exposed her to more hurt, more friction, to the harsher realities of life, and it seemed that she had reached the inevitable breaking point.

Violet noticed that Isobel had quieted down and she loosened her hold on her. Isobel straightened up a bit and lifted up her head.

'I... thank you, cous... Violet', she whispered, looking her in the eyes. Violet let her hand slide over her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze, still holding her.

'You don't have to thank me, Isobel', she said, and then saw Isobel's brown eyes well up again, and she tried to read all those fleeting feelings as they replaced and overlapped each other – pain, relief, anguish, embarrassment, gratitude... _guilt? She couldn't possibly feel guilty about what happened to Matthew... could she? _

And for the first time in years, Violet allowed herself to feel genuine pity, genuine compassion for another human being. Not that she didn't feel that at all. But it was never allowed to rise up to the surface, it was always wrapped in a sarcastic remark or some biting witticism. And its upwelling now was so strong and so overwhelming, that when she looked Isobel in the eyes, it almost threw her off balance. And it surprised her to feel that all that she wanted in that very moment was to make the pain, the guilt, the anguish, '_it'—_ go away.

Almost without realising it, her hand travelled up Isobel's arm and to the side of her face, where she arranged, this time, a very real strand of light chestnut hair behind her ear. Her index finger traced Isobel's graceful jaw line and she inched forward a bit, brushing her lips to Isobel's, without thinking. She felt Isobel's breath hitch with surprise, then felt her sigh, then give in into the kiss. And all thought lost shape, all logical reasoning disappeared for an instant, melting into sensation – soft lips on soft lips, searching, testing, inquiring, awakening long-forgotten longings and deeply buried feelings she didn't even know she had been missing until that moment. She suddenly felt a surge of panic and recoiled, opening her eyes. Isobel inched back from the embrace, an unidentifiable expression in her eyes, and raised her hand to her mouth. Violet looked around and, seeing her cane by her side, reached for it, and then quickly walked past Isobel, left the room, passed through the now dark hallway and got out of the house, finally drawing a deep breath when the cold night air hit her face.

She started walking quickly towards the car.


End file.
